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Dixmer, too, arrived at that very moment, and appeared tickled pink at seeing Maurice at this unexpected hour of the day. But before Maurice was served the cup of chocolate he had accepted, Dixmer, ever enthusiastic when it came to his commercial enterprise, insisted that his friend the secretary of the Lepelletier section tour the workshops with him. Maurice could only go along.

“My dear Maurice,” said Dixmer, taking the young man’s arm and steering him along, “I have news of the utmost importance to tell you.”

“To do with politics?” asked Maurice, preoccupied as he continued to be with his notion.

“Ha!” Dixmer barked, smiling. “You know we don’t take much notice of politics here, my friend. No, no, it’s a bit of industrial news, I’m glad to say! My honorable friend Morand, who, as you know, is a most distinguished chemist, has just discovered the secret of a red morocco leather never before seen till now. It’s fade-resistant! It’s this dye I want to show you. And you’ll get to see Morand at work; he’s a true artist, that one.”

Maurice didn’t quite see how you could be an artist in red morocco, but he accepted the invitation anyway and trailed after Dixmer through the workshops. In a sort of special dispensary, he saw citizen Morand at work. Morand was wearing his blue glasses this time, along with his work gear, and he seemed incredibly busy indeed, turning a dirty white sheepskin purple. His hands and arms, visible below rolled-up sleeves, were red to the elbow. As Dixmer said, he seemed to have given himself over heart and soul to the joys of cochineal—so much so that he merely nodded to Maurice without stopping what he was doing.

“So, citizen Morand,” said Dixmer, “where were we?”

“We stand to gain a hundred thousand livres a year with this process alone,” said Morand. “But I haven’t slept for a week and the acids are burning my eyes.”

Maurice quickly left Dixmer with Morand and went back to join Geneviève once more, murmuring very softly to himself, “I have to admit the job of municipal officer will turn even a hero into a hardened brute. At the end of a week at the Temple, you’d think you were an aristocrat yourself and turn yourself in. Dixmer’s not a bad bloke and Morand’s the real thing; as for Geneviève, she’s as sweet as they come. To think I could suspect them even for a moment!”

Geneviève was waiting for Maurice with a smile so sweet as to dispel the suspicions he had, after all, entertained. She was all that she always was: gentle, warm and friendly, charming. The hours Maurice spent with Geneviève were those when he really felt alive. The rest of the time he suffered from the fever we might well call “the fever of ‘93,” which split Paris into two camps and turned existence into an eternal struggle—every minute of the day.

At midday, nonetheless, he had to leave Geneviève and return to the Temple. At the far end of the rue Saint-Avoye, he met Lorin coming off duty. He was bringing up the rear, but broke rank and went over to Maurice, whose whole face still glowed with the bliss that seeing Geneviève always made him feel.

“Ah!” said Lorin giving his friend’s hand a hearty shake:

“In vain you seek to stifle your sighs

I know what you desire.

You say nothing; but you’re on fire.

Love is in your heart, love is in your eyes.”

Maurice fumbled in his pocket for his whistle, which was his way of putting a damper on his friend’s poetic verve. But Lorin saw what was coming and ran off laughing.

“By the way,” said Lorin, turning to face Maurice again, “you’ve still got three days at the Temple, Maurice. I commend little Capet to you.”

12

LOVE

After a while, Maurice was very happy and very unhappy at the same time. That is how it always is at the beginning of grand passions. He worked in the day within the Lepelletier section; at night, he visited the old rue Saint-Jacques and occasionally put in an appearance at the Thermopylae club. These things filled his days and nights.

He did not fool himself into thinking that seeing